Page 10 of Kept 3


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“They were all I had left of my mother,” I say quietly, tears close to the surface, “if they were constraints, I loved them, I needed them. Now I have nothing.”

I don’t look up at him, don’t want him to see my eyes are glistening. Instead, I ignore the sound of him rising from his seat as I reach for my water, taking a deep gulp.

He walks to the sideboard and opens a drawer. Still struggling to control my emotions, I look up as he comes to stand by my chair. In his hands are my mother’s books, and the ‘Complete works of William Shakespeare’ – the latter I’d carried with me since the Camden Markets.

“You saved them,” I croak, tears now welling unbidden, “you saved my mother’s books.”

“I know what they mean to you, Josephine. Of course, I saved them. But even had I not, you would not have had ‘nothing’ – you have me.”

I shake my head, lost for words, as he hands them to me and walks back to his seat at the other end of the very, very long table.

Drying my tears on my linen napkin, I place my hand upon the books, feeling their familiar smooth covers.

‘How could someone so bloodthirsty also be so thoughtful?’

“Why did you kill Ricardo? Really?” I ask him quietly, “you let me go from Paris. I know you did. Were you just playing a sick cat-and-mouse game with me like Lucy said you might? Did you plan to find me and terrify me again and again until, what? I cracked? What was it all about? What is this,” I wave my hand around the room, from the walls and their imposing masterpieces to the fireplace with its crackling flames, and back to him, “all about?”

He is silent for several minutes, and I pull back my chair, ready to stand, sure he isn’t going to answer. But he surprises me.

“I didn’t kill them.”

“What?”

“I didn’t kill Ricardo and Ms Bernshire. Don’t get me wrong,” he holds up his hand to stall my questions, “I fully intended to kill Ms Bernshire. In fact, I had tracked her to Sicily for that very purpose – I was more surprised than anyone to find her in the same home as you. But she was dead when I got there, Josephine, and so was your lover.”

“I don’t believe you,” I say, my voice barely a whisper.

He shrugs.

“It is the truth.”

I stand, quietly, considering him. I’ll give him one thing; he has never lied to me. In fact, he has been painfully truthful about everything he wants and all the consequences that come with it. But how can I trust a man who is holding me captive?

As if reading my mind, he stands also.

“I have no reason to lie, Josephine. If I killed them, I would admit it, as I have done freely to you in the past. Keeping you here while I find out who did murder them is keeping you safe, although, you know I wish to keep you for other reasons, and you would certainly be safer if you agreed to be mine.”

I swallow hard. He’d elucidated those reasons on many, many occasions. He desired me; he liked me, he wanted to give me pleasure I’d only ever dreamed of. Most of me was sick of hearing it, but a small part, a very small part that only reared its ugly little head in the darkest hours of the night, wondered what it would be like. How freeing would it be to give in to my desire for him? To allow him to own me, keep me? To never have to worry about money, or the future, because that would be all taken care of. But I also knew, in my heart of hearts, this was something I would never do – I wanted to live, I wanted a family of my own one day, children. Iwanteda future – and no amount of billionaire-lifestyle days or earth-shattering nights would make up for having that taken away from me.

“I’m going to bed. Thank you for the books.”

I turn to leave, but he is in front of me, quicker than I could have imagined anyone or anything moving, and I gasp. I know what is coming, he will kiss my hand, breathe on me, wish me goodnight.

Only tonight, he doesn’t. He takes the books from me and carefully places them on the table behind us before turning to me and putting his hands on my shoulders. My cast is off now, my shoulder twinges occasionally, but I am no longer in pain, no longer on medication, so the careful weight of his hands is not causing me any discomfort. But I stand stiffly, uncomfortable in his proximity, wanting to lean away from him, and yet not, drawn but repelled at the same time.

“Look at me, Josephine.”

Unwillingly, I raise my eyes to his and become lost. His are so deep it is like looking into two bottomless wells. I could drown in the blue, they are so beautiful, and as his eyes seem to burn into mine, to consume them, he commands: “Come.”

I frown and then gasp. My hands fly to his arms, and my fingers dig into his biceps as I am rocked by a powerful orgasm, my body tingling from head to toe. I can’t look away from his eyes as I am gripped by paroxysms of pleasure that go on and on as he watches intently, bringing me to a shuddering and stunned conclusion.

Panting, staring at him in amazement, I see him smirk.

“If I can do that with my voice, Josephine,” he murmurs, “just imagine what I can do with my body.”

Every part of me is suddenly fuelled with anger.

Stepping back from him, I jerk my arm back and slap him across his smirking face with all my strength; the sound of my palm smacking against his cheek echoing around the vast room like a gunshot.